


demios and phobos

by noviceoeuvre



Category: Original Work
Genre: Break Up, First Meetings, Love, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 00:05:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15012335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviceoeuvre/pseuds/noviceoeuvre
Summary: madness and fear





	1. omorfia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh the second chapter is better lol

              The enchanting bells dance and sing as a stranger wanders the city, his hand enticed by the fabric of his collar as he fiddles with it relentlessly. He follows the sound of the bells as they sing, and he's almost caught in a grip as he hears the sounds of people bombarding for encore becomes familiar upon his ear drums. The city seems to vibrate upon the rush of his foot as it syncs with the sound of the drums that conquer, and they guide him and his curiosity to the site that seems to cause the city itself to fall into its ardent embrace.

            He feels the urge to see, feel, touch what attracts the city die down as he witnesses just what it is, and truly his urge becomes more dishevelled as he feels his chest soar, as he becomes totally infatuated with what he sees. He feels the urge roar with pride, as he drowns in his want to move to the enchanting music, into the melodic voice that only just became a familiar attribute, into the sight he sees that completely enthrals his very being.

            A voice arises from her gently crafted mouth, one that soothes his worries, one that almost causes him to fall into her arms and listen to her forever; one that causes all the birds to gather and join, that causes nature itself to embrace the captivating grace that has blessed itself upon it; one that causes all the people to gather as they do now and encore her, embrace her and love her.

           The way she moves, the way her skin radiates against the gentle touch of the sun, the way her hair gently sways in her own rhythm, the way the clothes she wears embody the mere idea of grace and true beauty; he can't stop staring. He can't stop staring at the art he witnesses breathe and perform before his very eyes, and he almost can't comprehend that such a thing exists. He almost can't comprehend that such beauty, grace and flair could exist and he almost can't comprehend that he witnesses it.

           She continues to shimmer until she finds that her performance closes; as she walks off he notices and hears the praise she receives, and longs to be one of those who tell her of her brilliance.

               Thus, he walks towards her, practicing the things he'd say meticulously in his head. He hears her calm, soothing voice as she speaks and adheres to the fact that her voice is slightly meandered by an accent – one that he couldn't quite decipher, but he took his chances and instead utilised his mother tongue in the hopes that his ideas would come off stronger.

          As she passes him, he clears his throat, as he brightly, yet hesitantly, says to her: "Tu es muy bella. Me–"

           "Ah, désolée, je ne parle pas de l'espagnol." She says quickly with her hand waving, and he immediately feels heat rise in his cheeks, and he's very much aware that it's very much visible on his faint porcelain cheeks.

          "My apologies, I thought you were of a Spanish descent." He blurts quickly, as he quickly adjusts his collar to compensate for his mere unprecedented admiration for the utter beauty he saw displayed before his very eyes. "I found your performance very stunning. You're a very beautiful character and are certainly very talented."

          She seemed slightly startled by his sudden praise, as her brows lifted and a light pigmentation ran over her freckled skin. "I'm glad to hear I entertained you. Thank you for your kind words, Sir." She civilly curtsied as she pleasantly let a smile impend on her cheeks.

          For a moment he remains silent, as the thought pesters him to ask her to dine with him. He feels a personal obligation to treat her to something more than his bare attention, but he remains hesitant for a moment.

          He sees that she's becoming uncomfortable as a meandering silence begins to grow within their space. The city moves and so does its people, and the two of them remain standing there, both expecting something to come upon their situation to halt this vexatious strain.

         He finds that it comes upon him finally, though only gently, but he acts on it anyway.

          He clears his throat, as he begins to fondle his cravat in his ascending nerve. "This may be abrupt, and I apologise in advance for such a sudden offer, but may I have the pleasure to treat you to dine with me?" He speaks softly, as he tries to remain in contact with her eyes.

          She, yet again, is vaguely astounded by the boisterous offer, but no less willing. She simply smiles, as her voice rises in her throat, stating that she'd had absolutely no hesitation to dine, as she does remain with hunger all hours of her wake, but she would find it strange to dine with a man she knows nothing of.

      He takes her words into consideration and understands her perspective.

          He nods, as he inflates his chest, preparing to properly introduce himself. However, just as he begins to take the chance, she's already began to speak, and she holds her hand out in formality, too.

            "My name is Anna Maria LeBeau, and I hail from the romantic land of Paris, France. I came to this country to pursue my own needs, as my home came to become dry, in my eyes. It is my utter pleasure to be as your acquaintance, dashing Sir." She states, with such confidence and lingering flirtatious providence that he can't help but feel a sort of lift that he can only recognize as attraction, and he doesn't dare deny its presence.

          He stumbles for a moment and is completely oblivious to the hand she holds out for him.

              He eventually returns to his psyche, and shakes it gently, taking very much concern to how warm and plump her palm seems to be. He still remains timid, as he barely revives his dwindling voice to introduce himself.

            "My name is Alessandro Vera, and I hail from the fertile lands of Madrid, Spain. I came to this country due to my brother's boredom of our home land, similar to you. I agreed because I found that this land is very interesting and with very much rich history. It's an absolute delight to meet you, Maria." He introduces, imitating the format she used, and she is clearly amused by his faint sense of humor.

            She smirks, as a minute amount of air flares from her nostrils. "It seems you and I share the trend of coming from capital cities. Isn't that ironic, my dear Alessandro?"

            He tenses up at the mention of his name coming from her voice; it's strange how her voice laces around his mind and completely encapsulates him, and he quickly becomes infatuated with that attribute of her.

           "It is, isn't it?" He laughs fleetingly and tries to come back to the topic of him taking her out to dine. "So, about my offer, are you still willing?"

              A look of momentary thought comes upon her countenance, and for a moment he fears she might reject him; however, his fears are short-lived, as she perks up, and says it would be her pleasure with such a bright tone that he can't help but feel a sort of sensation pick at his cheeks.

            "Well, if I may, it would be my pleasure to dine with you, Maria," He coos with a lax tone of voice to especially entice her, as he partially hitches his torso downward, one arm covering his chest, whilst the other branches its hand toward her.

             She smiles brightly, and a vibrant light ignites in her eyes that seem to encapsulate the gentle sky with clouds drifting among itself. She returns his hand, with her dress that seems to give her the image of a flipped creamy tulip.

                                           "Simply call me Anna, my dear Alessandro."


	2. eros

                                his mouth is dry and sour, and he was growing impatient as the night became more vivacious. it feels like it has been years since the whiskey has grazed his throat and he's growing too desperate to comprehend the feelings and rationalities he should have; but now it not the time. now was never time, and now wouldn't be the time tonight. now was the time to forget the stupid epiphanies of his life, it was the time he embraced his needs, his urges, and it was the time he got rid of his pestering thoughts and lived like he should - lived how he wanted. he wasn't going to listen to no assuming bigot older brother of his, because it was his life to live.

              he drags his palms against his eyelids downwardly to his lips that seem to grow just as impatient as he does - they want it too. they're begging for it. they're begging for it, screaming, yelling, exclaiming the pain of the dryness, of biting cold caressing the crevices of the dead skin of his lips and face without their consent, and they're condemning it with all their might; every living fibre in his body is lusting for that one cup of whiskey to cascade down his throat and settle this vacant feeling in his lungs, in his stomach, in his everything.

                                     he wants to do it so bad, so awfully urgently that his body physically aches and his head is feels like it dissolves in this very moment because there isn't a drink to soothe its riot; but something is stopping him. something is standing between him and the lively bar down the street that seems to be calling his name in its smooth, caressing, almost homely voice that used to encapsulate his very essence everywhere he went in his previous years. that thing seems to be impenetrable, impossible, stubborn, it isn't even something physical like the image of himself, drained and pruned, in his reflection, or the bed that seemed to never be done, or the window's silk curtains that dance with the wind's pushing touch; it isn't any of that.

                                                                          it's his shame.

                   the shame he knows that will come upon him if he pours that cup of whiskey, that cup of whiskey he knows will turn into cups upon cups. it's the shame he'll feel when he returns home, head aching, mind racing, and seeing the look on her face when she sees where he's been, smells what will reek from him, it's the look on her face that'll ruin him. it's the look that'll say that she thought he was better. it's the look that says that she thought he was above this. it's the look that'll say that this was the final straw, and that it wasn't the right time or place for this. it's the look that'll say he was no fit for a father of her son.

                                        even the pure notion of that scares him and immediately puts his raging thoughts for a drink to a mild rest, the pure notion that he'll see the look on her face and that'll be the last thing he'll see from her.

                  his body suddenly grows weak and unable, and he falls plainly back onto his undone bed.

                                      why, God, do you leave him like this? why, God, do you leave him to make the decisions he's far too young to know? why, God, in this moment, is he so trapped in his mind, does he fear you?

                             he sighs.

                his eyes remain on the ceiling. it seems like hours pass, and in reality it's only been a small while, as he remains trying to find comfort in something in the ceiling; finding comfort in the little bugs that scurry across it, the cracks he comes to memorize, the little pimple-like bumps that gave the surface texture. his lidded eyes become heavier and he suddenly wonders where she is. maybe if he sees her face again, this urge will settle finally.

                                 he gets up, his body still aching, and lets his hands wonder throughout his body and throughout the surface. he wants to ground himself in this reality, he wants to let this relentless urge to know that this was the reality of it, that he would lose all of this if he succumbs to it.

                he feels his skin against his fingers, he feels the delicacy of each hair on his arm, he feels his Adam's apple that continues to recede in his throat, he feels his finger nails, his eyelashes, the curvature of his nose and ears, the dryness of his lips, the depth of his collarbone, the texture of his hair - and it all seems to bring him back, somewhat mildly.

                              he releases a grand breath. he wants to see her come home, that's all he'd need for tonight to fade.

               it seems like years pass and the only thing that brings him back to his wake is the clock that never seems to stop ticking. tick, tick, tick.

                                    he decides it would be better to indulge in the street outside of his flat. the people outside in their heavy fur winter coats, and the others stumbling uneasily out of the bar with their faces cherry red, seemed to be more comforting than simply staring at a wall and letting his thoughts rush.

                 yet again, he seems to fade. he seems to fade, his mind almost, but just, dwindling into a state of conscious unconsciousness, where he simply saw nothing, thought nothing, cared for nothing.

                            he liked this, but once he recognized that liking, that phase seemed to break, and he was back again to the lust for whiskey strangling him, and the shame forbidding such a case. the conflict was annoying, to say the least.

                    he stayed like this for what seemed like a while, but he was sure it was only a few minutes. his mind dipping, rising, conflicting, then dipping again.

                                      it's only when he hears the click of the lock on the door does he finally banish this cycle, as his head immediately turns, in the hopes he sees the one thing that would help him get through tonight.

                                                              and tonight, unlike other nights, he was in luck, as his eyes met with those that seemed to soothe all his pain, worry and anxiety. those that sang the lullaby that made him fall right into her arms and feel like home was never lost. those that made him truly believe that there was the goodness in the world.

                             immediately, he shoots up and goes towards her, relief washing all over his body and limbs like warm water during a tummy ache. he quickly wrapped his arms around her, his weight falling upon her and the arch in her stomach. he let out a sigh of relief, as if she and she only were the only thing that could bring him that sense of safety, and she was.

                   his arms remained curved around her neck, and it takes him a small while before he speaks. he just wants to relish in her feeling, in her warmth, in this feeling because it seems like he's been deprived of that for so long that it's almost foreign now.

                               "you smell different, Amelia." he says simply, as he hitches his back upright and looks at her face, looks at her eyes. for a moment, his words seems to puzzle her, but he quickly follows it with "a good type of different. you smell like... daises."

                 he thinks this comment will partly lighten up her face that seems to be loathing or without that young vigilance that used to radiate from her - and for a while it has looked that way. it was especially with him, which made him worried that he had done or said something; so recently, he'd been trying his best to compliment her and he's even been getting her gifts with the small salary he makes from the bakery.

                                 although he had hoped it would, it didn't. it seemed to only anger her further.

                      "alej, listen, it's been a long day. I don't want to talk to you. you're always bothering me when I come back from work and even when I tell you that, you keep doing it. can't you listen to anything I say, just for once?" she mutters, as she pushes him aside and walks to the bed, throwing her jacket off and sitting there, her eyes averted from him.

                                      before, he would be concerned about why she seemed so agitated, but now he had gotten used to this attitude. sometimes he would try saying something to her, and she would only begin to argue, and eventually such arguing would escalate to something physical, but he knew it was only because she was stressed and pregnant. even if she had been doing it before she was pregnant, he knew it was because she was stressed anyway. her work was very pressing.

                   for some reason though, tonight, he wanted to try again. he had gotten her a bundle of chocolates, which he knew she enjoyed the most as she always asked for them. tonight, definitely, she would be happy.

                            thus, he walked over to the cabinet where he had left them, opened it, but for some reason he hesitated. he saw the expression on her face - furrowed brows, her eyes seem to be more than irritated, and her mouth is set in a pout - and it concerned him, even though he knows it's only typical. this expression only motivated him further to make her happy.

             "hey babe, I - "

                          "how many times have I told you not to call me that, alejandro? don't call me that."

               he feels slightly meandered, but he knows he's just being dramatic. "sorry. I just wanted to tell you, I got you these chocolates from down the street, I thought you'd like them." He simpers meekly, as he reveals the chocolate and slowly places it on their cotton sheets - well, it was mostly hers now, since she told him to sleep on the floor, but she was just being grumpy because she was stressed and he didn't argue.

                   her eyes slowly progress to the chocolate he gently placed on the bed, and for a moment he can't really tell what she thinks.

                             he remains silent, knowing that if he spoke he'd be yelled at.

                                  her eyes begin to ignite with something, and it's a vibrant red, and it immediately seeps out into her face, her expression, her body, her hands, her lips, and alejandro recognizes that vibrant red color, he's seen it so many times before - mama, papa, hermano, Amelia. - it's almost home now.

                                                                                 anger.

                          anger, frustration, hatred. loathing, the urge to hit, the urge to completely get rid of someone. he'd seen it so many times from mama, and he was almost sure that her exact image was resurrected in Amelia, his darling lover.

                               she shoots up, her hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palm, her arm shaking with the mere anger that seemed to emit from her whole being. she inches towards him, and he knows this is a sign to back off, but he lets himself be cornered. he lets himself be held by the collar. he lets himself be slapped, kicked, punched, because Amelia was Amelia, and Amelia never did anything that wasn't called for. just like his own mama.

                                    "you know what, I am fed up with you and your stupidity. you're just damn stupid and you never know when to give a woman a break. have you ever considered that maybe you're just annoying? that maybe you can never quit talking or hugging me or saying that you love me? that maybe you don't even deserve to be related to this child in my stomach?"

           she says all these words so quickly, and yet he hears every single one of them.

                        her voice progressively rises, and so does his collar, and he can feel the distinct feeling of choking encapsulate his neck.

                                 for a moment he can feel her stop, as she releases air constantly through her nose, and he begins to tense up, knowing that it isn't even the worst of it.

            but he lets it happen, yet again. he's far too used to this anyway.

                       she lets her tongue roam around her lips, trying to somewhat compensate for the anger, for the pure bloody hatred, that bubbles up in her stomach.

                                       "you know something, alejandro? you won't even be related to the kid. do you know why?" she tenses her jaw and her eyes never lose contact with his. "DO YOU KNOW WHY?" as she says this, she brings his collar close to her and begins to slam his head against the wall relentlessly. "TELL ME ALEJANDRO, DO YOU KNOW WHY? DO YOU? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY THIS WASTE OF EFFORT, TIME AND MONEY IN MY STOMACH ISN'T GOING TO RELATED TO YOU, ALE-EL NINO DE MAMA-JANDRO? DO YOU?"

                       he's almost too jarred by his head banging against the wall and the feeling of sinking rising upon him to catch the last few words she says. when he does, he feels as if she had done it deliberately, and she had, and he knew that. but yet, he never seems to falter.

         he eventually lets out a small "why" and it seems like this only enrages her further.

                 "WHY?" she pauses, breathing harshly, and she can barely even begin to contain the magnitude of emotions that seem to seep out upon him.

                         he looks at her, and their eyes meet. for a moment their resonates that small, hopefully gleam of nostalgia, of the love that was spawned and that was built from the ground up. of that love that brought her here with him, of a love that fulfilled her, of a love that was genuine.

                                        and for a moment he wonders if this really is her being stressed, or something else. but he never wants to bash her, because what right does he have to do so? she was the only light in his life, who had nurtured him from what was his lowest point, and he had nothing to do but rely on her and her alone.

                       the silence strains for a moment, and the both of them feel it, heavily.

                                                                                                                                  "it isn't even yours."

                                                                                    and then the silence takes over again.

                                she lets go of his collar, lets him sink onto the ground and she wanders onto the bed, almost lost.

                                                                 and so is he.

                                                                             in this moment, he's very lost.

                                                                                                 he's very lost on what to think. what to say. what to do.

                              and then he hears the words that singlehandedly would spiral him into the place he was destined to be.

                                               to be a man with no path.

                                                         with no love.

                                                                   with no morals.

                                                                             with no anything but the whiskey in his hand and the stranger in his bed.

                               the words that would descend him into madness, into pure dysphoria, into pure and untainted intoxication and earthly lust.

                                                                                                               the words that would break him.

                                                                                                                                      "this is the end of us, alejandro. leave."

         he was unsure of everything, frankly, in that moment. he was unsure of love. he was unsure of people. he was unsure if he really knew how to live, anymore.

                                but he did leave, because he had nothing to argue. he was weak and useless, just like he'd been when mama and papa left too. he was meandering and he wasn't willing to admit that maybe he wasn't really ready to say that he was in love, because he'd never know what love was in the first place.

                 thus he grew to despise it, as he walked out of the small apartments, into the streets, and into the bar, the place that held the only thing that never seemed to abandon him. not like his mama or his papa or his hermano or, now, he assumes, his Amelia. it won't ever throw him into the dust, never again.

                                                                  a fine, lavish and refreshing cup of his own beloved


End file.
